For some reason I feel uncertain with this poem. I know the syllable count doesn't match eight the whole way through, but I feel like it works out best as far as conveying the meaning goes. Basically, in a story I'm writing this is the tale of a strange, distant desert. If anyone has honest critique to offer (I'm not here to get things sugar-coated) I would greatly appreciated it. Thanks for your time :)
When stars shone bright upon the land
there stood a city in the sand,
Aranahan, pale as the moon,
her silver flags in breeze did swoon.
The ivory walls carved by the wind
to heaven's summit did ascend;
a jewel upon the desert's crown
far under earth descended down.
Her towers mirrored the dunes and sky;
ablaze they were when eve drew nigh,
the setting sun through diamonds broke,
shinning like celestial cloak.
Great mirth rang free from every hall
and song poured down from towers tall,
Aranahan, the city fair,
perpetual, glistened in the air.
Her name was known from shore to shore,
recalled of in the ancient lore,
her name, a marvel on the earth
was whispered of above cold hearth.
Treasure she was to mortal eye,
a gemstone fallen from the sky,
ethereal song rang within
her curling stair and sprawling bend.
And deeper down lie shelves of books,
piled in mountains, crammed in nooks,
a sea of knowledge for the mind
below the desert once did wind.
Prosperity her land once saw,
for still unknown, her fatal flaw,
kept open gates to mortal spawn,
so waned the hours of the dawn.
The kings of men held high their heads
despite their shoulders weighed with dreads,
they sought the castle of the dune,
a dark shape in the dying moon.
Their griefs they placed before the Queen,
diversions for their evil mean,
while the kings' eyes begged for pity,
lusted they the crystal city.
Their hearts felt no more than a jewel,
they thought the Queen a gold-crowned fool,
a greedy fire in their eyes,
they robbed the treasure of the skies.
Upon their stolen steads they fled,
their hearts held joy, but also dread,
Aranahan watched from afar,
decreasing as a distant star.
Each king put on a wicked grin,
confident in their sullen sin,
but as they left dust in their wake
the ground beneath began to quake.
The sand dunes shifted brought to life,
grains hissing like wheat field to scythe,
a chasm opened to the void,
the kings were swallowed and destroyed.
The land bore no scar of their deaths,
the sands sealed with their final breaths,
Aranahan, the city fair,
perpetual, rose unto the air.
A flame of silver light she left,
sorrowing in the three kings' theft,
a sapphire lit in lightless sky
let lose her other-worldly sigh.
Alas her light was beyond reach,
her presence mortals did beseech,
but soon her name did pass away
and fade unto archaic day.
Only the sands recall her name
and lament at her fading fame,
Aranahan, amongst the stars,
if only she still could be ours.
См. статью: How to improve my poem?